A Stained Trench Coat
by claimedbydaryl
Summary: Dean clings onto Cas' trench coat in the dim light of a motel room. And then there's a knock at the door-and it isn't Sam.


The motel room was dark, and Dean's mind was darker still. Small, insignificant, empty, of no important use—Dean and the room seemed to share a few common traits.

The walls were decorated in a faded leaf print, the sparse furniture restricted to two narrow single beds, two nightstands, a desk with a 1970s-era television set, a table with two chairs and an in-built kitchenette. It served the most basic needs, and that's all the Winchesters ever asked for. An adjoining door led to the cramped bathroom, where dark lines of grout separated the lime grime tiles and the dismal water pressure was far from extraordinary.

A sliver of moonlight streamed through the gap in the thin curtains, a brief reprieve from the suffocating dimness of the interior. The distant thrum of outside—traffic, the trickle of animal life in the surrounding forest, footsteps moving over the rain-slick ground—centred Dean, keeping him grounded though his inner turmoil.

Sam was a few towns over, conducting a solo hunt that heeded none of his brother's assistance, leaving with a few crumpled notes on the table and a sad, helpless look in his eyes. They were brothers in every sense of the word—bound by blood, if you will—but the two of them had perpetually struggled with the right words or expressions, instead relying on actions which lacked in meaning and half-hearted jokes. But Sam knew Dean could only face this alone, that the storm had already laid waste to his soul and now he just had to pick up the wreckage and salvage what he could.

The taste of beer—cheap and much too weak for his liking—was sour on Dean's tongue, curdling low in his stomach. It settled his tumultuous insides, a golden haze which promised a few moments of safety amidst the living, breathing nightmare that was his life, but the relief was short-lived, always bittersweet. His usual haunts—tried and tested places which oozed with self-loathing and exhaustion—seemed to pale in comparison to his innermost desire—a person whom he wished he hadn't lost.

He sat in the furthermost corner of the room, knees pulled close to his chest and arms encircling his legs, the back of his head resting on the thin plaster wall behind him. Gone was the hunter with the bow-legged swagger and devilish grins, absent of wisecracks that were as sharp as his knife and words which were as true as his aim—his single-minded determination just as deadly. He was dressed in casual attire—jeans which were worn at the knees and a pair of steel-capped boots, a comfortable flannel left unbuttoned over his fitted Henley T-shirt. His hair was limp and his throat was dry, and Dean registered a dull throbbing at the base of skull. But he wore something that was so out of place, and so outlandish, that even Sam would've voiced his observations if Dean hadn't waited until he was gone to mull over his depressive thoughts in self-imposed exile.

It was Cas' trench coat.

It still stunk of that repugnant dark ooze, filthier than demon blood and twice as acidic, staining the fabric black in some places. Dean couldn't seem to forget the disturbing image that had burned into his mind—his Cas, with a hard, unforgiving gaze and stiff posture, a roadmap of black fluid tracking down the planes and angles of his face, dripping from his chin. The sight had turned Dean's stomach and made his hands clench into fists, knuckles white with pressure—and it still held that power over him now.

The trench coat offered a form of meagre comfort—not from the cold, or the guilt and anger which plagued his mind, but to lessen the leaden weight in his chest—in this whirlwind of emotion. Dean snorted at the thought of himself having such feelings, his innards twisted and his head a mass of disconnected thoughts, but it was true.

He could barely manage an hour of unbroken sleep without waking up in a cold sweat, heart pounding and bile rising in the back of his throat. Food had been rendered bland, and booze was more unfulfilling too. The mere thought of spending a short night with a nameless woman—of bearing the touch or pitying looks of anyone who wasn't Sam—made him so physically sick he restricted himself to inside living, with a limited number of windows and curtains drawn tight.

He rubbed at his running nose with the cuff of the coat, catching a whiff of that repulsive blood which burned his sinuses, and he winced. It didn't remind him of Cas; it didn't even fit him well. It was tight around the shoulders and short at the sleeves, a relic rather than something Dean had reason to use.

A single tear slipped unbidden down Dean's cheek and he was quick to wipe it away, erasing the evidence of it in the swift stroke of his thumb. The rapid-fire sound of John Winchester's voice was loud and clear in his head, shooting out orders and backhand comments, telling him that crying was a sign of weakness—that any emotion was a sign of weakness.

In effect, he hadn't cried much at all, or even so much as felt a whisper of a visceral emotion—_Dad would've been proud_, he thought wryly. Instead, he waited until Sam was out of view—either when Dean was leaning against the cold wall of the shower under a steady stream of water, or with his back strategically turned to his brother—and had just stared outwards, his eyes empty and dull and his chest hollow.

But now, curled in the dark corner of a subpar motel with a dead angel's trench coat draped over his shoulders, offering him no protection from the cold, tears fell. He couldn't seem to stop, silent save for the intermittent whimpers that were ripped from his throat. It was a pathetic display, Dean knew that, but he reasoned with himself—no one was here to watch him fall to pieces, like he was torn apart at the seams, like pulling at an unravelling string.

And he heard a knock at the door, shattering the fragile silence in one fateful blow.

Dean's head snapped forward, his honed instincts reverting to their usual perfected alertness, hands reaching for the loaded Glock resting on the ground beside him. He got to his feet, oblivious to the fact he was still wearing Cas' trench coat. Advancing upon the door, straining for the sound of a voice or retreating footsteps, he trained the muzzle of the handgun on the threshold between the room and outside. A shadow flickered at the base of the door, waiting with an unnatural stillness for an answer.

His head somewhat clear with purpose, Dean wiped at his tear-slicked cheeks one last time and gripped the doorknob tight, wrenching it open—

—And there, at the business end of his gun, was Castiel.

He was dressed in tan-coloured church pants that almost might have been funny, and a dark blue sweater that was much too form-fitting for Dean to really have his eye on the prize here. He looked so un-Cas with a clean-shaven face, neatly combed hair, and his bright blue gaze burning into Dean like he was a puzzle he couldn't quite work out. Cas dipped his head as his eyes drifted downwards, lingering on the stained trench coat that still hung off Dean's lean frame, and a prickle of discomfort and embarrassment bloomed over his skin.

"Cas?" His voice was steady, so unlike the storm or emotion raging inside him.

"Dean?" Whisky-deep and rough, he still sounded the same—he still asked the same question in that innocent, beguiled tone, like he needed clarification of some strange human custom.

"What happened?" Dean asked, just realising his Glock was still pointed square at Cas' chest, and he subsequently lowered it to his side. He maintained a firm grip on the gun since he couldn't trust it was his angel, not just yet.

Cas' answer was simple, an expected response. "I died."

"I know," he was so close to rolling his eyes and forgetting the fact that Cas should've actually been dead. He really was. "Of course I fucking know you died, Cas." He snapped. "I was there, remember? I was asking why you're standing at my door like some lost puppy in the rain, _alive_."

"It was… a miracle." Was his answer. "An act of God, if you will."

"Are you telling me that God, the Big Man who runs the show up top, decided now was the time to grace us with his heavenly presence and all he does is resurrect you?" Dean's tone was scathing, and probably offensive on a whole new number of levels, but he didn't care. Because Cas was standing in front of him and he just couldn't believe he was there. That he was real and whole and talking to him.

"Yes."

"Why?" Dean demanded breathlessly—he didn't realise he was panting, gasping for air, his chest was rising and falling in heaving motions.

"Because I beseeched a boon from Him," he said. Cas' was damn near soulful, staring at Dean with a glimmer of something—maybe even tears—in his bright blue eyes, reflecting the image of a strange man with a green gaze, brown hair and a wounded expression.

Dean's patience was wearing thin, and so was his sanity. "I don't really have time to go find a dictionary, Cas," he seemed to have forgotten all pretences, practically yelling now, "just spit it out."

Cas tilted his head, a ghost of a smile softening his achingly familiar features. "I asked him to save me."

Dean's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to."

"Wanted to what?"

"To do this," he said, and whatever razor-sharp response Dean was working on was forgotten as Cas leaned forward and _fucking kissed him_. Cas gripped his own trench coat on Dean's chest, fisting the fabric and pulling him toward him in one violent jerk. Their lips crashed together in a melding of mouths, teeth clanging together painfully and too much tongue for any real finesse.

Dean pushed the angel back roughly, swearing. "What. The. Fuck. Was that?" He was still gripping onto Cas' stupid sweater—he didn't even remember clutching it in the first place, and by the looks of it he had also grasped Cas' hair, musing it into its usual bed head.

"I did it all for you." Cas was saying, hurt and a little something like disappointment shining in his expression, hitting Dean in the centre of his chest. "Everything I did, I did it in your name."

"And that's supposed to mean what exactly?" Dean said, although he knew exactly what Cas was saying, he was just scared to admit it, he was just scared to face it. He looked at his fingers digging into Cas' sweater, feeling the rhythmic pounding of his heart beneath the warm and supple flesh. Without meaning to, he flattened his hand against the angel's chest, revelling in the sound of a real heartbeat under his palm. It was more of a force of habit than a real necessity, since the heart belonged to a human and the soul belonged to an angel, but anything that was part-Cas seemed to amaze Dean. Period.

"I think you know what it means," Cas replied, his fingers soothing the collar of his trench coat, trailing up the side of Dean's neck in a decidedly slow, torturous movement. Dean sucked in a shaky gasp at the light contact, his tongue swiping over his lips instinctively. Cas' eyes flickered downwards to the Hunter's lips, a hunger evident in his features, the air thick with tension.

This time Dean was prepared for Cas, and their mouths pressed together in a furious bid for dominance. The door slammed shut behind them, rattling the cheap wooden picture frames. Dean tasted like sour beer, but hidden beneath the tang of alcohol was an undercurrent of rainwater, and he smelt like old leather and grease, a familiar scent to Cas. And Cas was something entirely different—sweet and bursting with flavour, like if starlight had a taste.

The angel kissed slowly, taking great and meticulous care to make every second a worthwhile endeavour. However, Dean was a tad hastier on the subject, desperate to feel bare skin beneath his hands and drink in the naked sight of Cas, his lips swollen red with kisses and his hair askew, limbs splayed on the rumpled sheets of his bed. Dean's response was fast and straight-to-the-point, pouring every ounce of meaning he had into the kiss. He teased the seam of Cas' lips, gaining access to his mouth at the first sign of consent.

With the wet sounds of their mouths moving together in perfect unison, Dean's hands slid from Cas' chest down to his hips, curling over the rounded flesh there, gripping it in a teasing hold. Cas' own hands remained on his neck, cradling his head in an innocent and almost fragile hold which left Dean a little unsatisfied, because he would've been perfectly content with the angel's touch _anywhere_ on his body. Still wearing too much clothes, an all-consuming spark of fire burning straight though him and heat pooling low in his stomach, Dean surged forward. He gripped Cas' tighter, pressing their bodies flush together, eliciting a startled, breathless gasp from the angel. He smiled against the other man's lips, happy with the reaction.

"Slow down," Cas whispered fondly, pulling back until a hairs breadth separated them. He placed another soft, chaste kiss to Dean's lips to sate his fervent need, tracing the curve of his cheek in worship. He leaned back to quickly appraise Dean—his pupils blown and mouth kiss-red—before pressing their heated foreheads together, their mingled breaths hot and irregular.

"I can't," he near growled, "I just have to touch you Cas."

The corner of Cas' lips pulled upwards into an affectionate, warm smile. He gifted Dean with another kiss, hands curling around his neck and tugging lightly at the roots of his short hair. Given an inch, Dean would have taken a mile—he gripped the back of Cas' thigh and pulled it a little higher over his, offering some blessed friction to them both. The Hunter almost blacked out at the sensation, grinning roguishly at the sight of Cas' eyelids fluttering shut, his delicious mouth parted. He ground his hips against Cas', pelvises rocking together. Dean groaned right into Cas' ear, overwhelmed with feeling, loving how the angel whispered a desperate plea against Dean's cheek, holding onto Dean like an anchor in a storm.

"Bed?" Dean prompted.

"Bed." Cas agreed, helpless to Dean's actions.

Locked in a passionate embrace, Dean's legs hit the edge of his bed, and he was a little shocked as Cas forced him to sit down. Looking up at Cas through a haze of arousal, hands still on his delicate hips, he almost ripped the fabric he was so tense. He shifted a little closer, spreading his legs to allow Cas to sidle between them, blood pumping in a rush through his veins. Dean didn't really expect—or plan—what would happen next, but soon he was hugging Cas—arms encircling his waist and his face pressed to the angel's smooth abdomen, just needing that simple reassurance that he was there.

Cas didn't say anything—he knew that would come later, after the initial adrenaline wore off and their evenings would be spent in companionable silence or private intimacy in Baby's cab, or the twisted sheets of bed, or entangled on some dingy couch. Instead, the angel just threaded his hands through the Hunter's hair softly, in soothing motions, offering him comfort where it was asked of him. Dean closed his eyes, enjoying the most basic pleasure of holding someone who wanted to be held, and buried his face against Cas' stomach like an errant child.

And then Cas was drawing Dean's face upwards by his chin, noticing his expression vulnerable with a flash of a smile, and then he slid into Dean's lap with his legs straddled on either sides of his hips. There was trust in Dean's gaze, and also a raw openness, and Cas reflected the sentiment, every action gentle and reverent in intention. He started to roll his hips against Dean's, their eyes never breaking contact, moving in a slow, drawn-out motion which spoke legions in meaning.

A breath of air escaping past his lips, Dean's hands spread across the span of Cas' back to run up and down his spine, sometimes grabbing his ass to urge him to move faster, or harder. Cas complied, finding a steady pace which they both matched in tandem, a little more eager than before but not willing to waste their first time on a quickie. Dean looked up at Cas and saw the world, paying due worship to his body, and Cas looked down at Dean and saw something precious worth living for.

Soon—as Dean couldn't take much more of this blissful torture—he hooked his arms under Cas' legs and rolled him over onto his back. Hands worked at unfastening their clothes in quick succession, kisses pressed to mouths and wrists and trailing over the smooth expanse of a stomach, a little more desperate in their frantic actions. There was no space between their bodies, no room left to doubt or question, because their feelings for each other were real and indisputable—they had been for a long time now.

They were down to Cas dressed in grey boxers and Dean in his Henley and black briefs, with the flesh of Cas' collarbone caught between Dean's teeth and the entire length of their bodies pressed flush together, when the pair were alerted to the sound of a key jangling in the door.

"Sam," Dean whispered, never hating his brother more than in this moment. Cas looked sharply at Dean, a little worried, and Dean could feel the endless years of jokes and second-hand embarrassment stretching out before him. All he could think was—_really? Now?_

"Quick, get dressed," Dean hissed, pushing Cas off the bed and onto the ground unceremoniously.

"Why?" Despite the bemused expression, Cas looked entirely fuckable sprawled out on the floor.

"Because I think his puny brain can only handle one thing at a time, and you being alive is a pretty big thing to wrap your head around, but his brother wanting to fuck you is an entirely different matter." Dean was rushing to smooth the sheets of his bed, roughly pulling on the nearest pieces of clothing and praying to god that the place didn't stink of heady almost-sex. He spared a glance at Cas, frantically motioning for him to speed things along when the door swung open in a wide arc.

Stupid Sam and his moose-like size couldn't seem to do anything but practically _burst_ inside the room, swearing as his keys slipped to the floor as he desperately tried to balance the multiple takeout pie containers in his Sasquatch arms.

"Dean, I found this place that has the best pies ever, like I honestly think they were plucked from God's finest dessert platter—" He looked up, gaze snapping to Dean's dishevelled appearance and the rumpled bed sheets behind him, regarding him with a weird sort of appraisal. "What happened?" he asked warily.

"Um, well, I—" he grasped for words, trying to find a believable excuse when Cas—that little fucker—popped up behind him, in nothing but his boxers and trench coat, all smiles and sunshine and rainbows. Like this was a totally normal occurrence between the three of them.

Sam damn near choked, taking in Cas' equally dishevelled appearance in comparison to his brother. He looked between Dean's untucked shirt and his mused hair, and the red marks that patterned Cas' collarbone and the fact that he was so blasé about walking around _in his goddamned underwear. _And—oh dear god no—it looked as if Dean and Cas had been very, very happy to see each other when Sam was safely in the next county over, risking his life facing a particularly vengeful wendigo as his brother was most likely getting laid.

By an angel.

A decidedly male angel who was apparently not so indifferent to sexual orientation.

"Dean?" Sam tried a different approach, looking to his brother for an answer.

Dean tugged his shirt down over his exposed stomach, incapable of competent speech or though. He shrugged, helpless and a little flushed, not knowing exactly how to put what had transpired between him and Cas into words. Or how to explain that to his little brother, of all people.

"Cas?" Sam asked in a high voice, needing to someone to say something, _anything_.

And so Cas did: "Hi Sam. Do you get blueberry pie or not?"


End file.
